Read Online The Pursuit of Mary Bennet by Pamela Mingle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pamela Mingle
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Kitty was seated between him and Mr. Ashton, while I was placed between Mr. Walsh and Mrs. Ashton. To my relief, Charles bore the burden of conversing with Amanda, leaving me free to talk to the other two gentlemen.
“When did you take orders, sir?” I asked between morsels of beef.
“Only last year. Henry was kind enough to offer me the living at Steadly.”
“Andrew is the son of an earl’s daughter,” Mr. Walsh said. “He was in need of gainful employment.”
Both men chuckled, and I saw that they had an easy camaraderie.
“So your father married the earl’s daughter?” Kitty asked Andrew.
He nodded. “I’m sure the earl has long regretted it.” This time the two men laughed out loud.
I found I liked Mr. Carstairs’s sense of humor, but I wasn’t sure if Kitty appreciated it. She smiled hesitantly and looked uncomfortable. Servants removed the platters of beef, replacing them with trays of raspberry and almond tarts, cakes, and custards in small cups. While everybody helped themselves to a sweet, I wondered why Mr. Walsh had never mentioned his own father. His mother was widowed, I knew. Would it be rude to ask?
I should have considered the matter more carefully before speaking. I turned to him and said, “What about your father, Mr. Walsh? Was it a recent loss?”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes darkening. “No. It’s been five years since his death,” he said coldly.
He added nothing further, and I wished I’d never asked. From his curt response, I could see this was not a subject he wished to converse about. He’d never spoken to me in that tone before, and I felt hurt burn in my chest. Was my question really so offensive?
After dinner, I played the pianoforte while Kitty seated herself next to Mr. Walsh, giggling and whispering. He seemed distracted. I noticed his eyes roving about the room, although his head was tilted toward her. Mr. Carstairs turned the pages for me, though it wasn’t really necessary. I played poorly, making a hash of some difficult passages because my attention was not fully engaged. As soon as the piece was finished, I nearly leaped off the bench. Stealing from the room, I sought the privacy of my own chamber. It wasn’t so difficult to escape from Henry Walsh if I applied myself to the task.
W e had many such evenings. Mr. Carstairs was a frequent visitor and often made the fourth at the whist table. On a few occasions, Jane invited other guests, and I played so everybody else could dance. I grew irritated with seeing all the ladies save myself dancing with Mr. Walsh. My resentment was magnified because I did not feel we were on good terms. Although I’d felt his watchful eyes on more than one occasion, we had exchanged only a few perfunctory words ever since I had asked about his father. Perhaps the question had been impertinent, but it seemed a small thing to forgive.
If this was the way things were to be, I thought I may as well return to Longbourn. My feelings were in a tangle; I desperately wanted his attention but was afraid I wouldn’t know how to behave if he bestowed it on me. For the present, his affection seemed directed at Kitty. He was solicitous of her comfort. He brought her tea, and once fetched her shawl when she said she was chilly. Frequently he was her dance partner, and he always played cards when she requested.
No. Allowing myself to feel anything for him would leave me far too vulnerable.
One evening while I was straightening the sheet music, he approached me.
“Miss Bennet, are we never to stand up together? Are you the only lady who plays?”
I felt warmth rising up from my neck. “I’m afraid I can’t speak for Jane’s acquaintances, but among my sisters, Elizabeth is the only other who plays.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Bingley could extend her an invitation? She lives in Derbyshire, does she not?”
I laughed. “Some ten miles from here. She has twin daughters who keep her very busy, so I doubt she will visit for the sole
“When did you take orders, sir?” I asked between morsels of beef.
“Only last year. Henry was kind enough to offer me the living at Steadly.”
“Andrew is the son of an earl’s daughter,” Mr. Walsh said. “He was in need of gainful employment.”
Both men chuckled, and I saw that they had an easy camaraderie.
“So your father married the earl’s daughter?” Kitty asked Andrew.
He nodded. “I’m sure the earl has long regretted it.” This time the two men laughed out loud.
I found I liked Mr. Carstairs’s sense of humor, but I wasn’t sure if Kitty appreciated it. She smiled hesitantly and looked uncomfortable. Servants removed the platters of beef, replacing them with trays of raspberry and almond tarts, cakes, and custards in small cups. While everybody helped themselves to a sweet, I wondered why Mr. Walsh had never mentioned his own father. His mother was widowed, I knew. Would it be rude to ask?
I should have considered the matter more carefully before speaking. I turned to him and said, “What about your father, Mr. Walsh? Was it a recent loss?”
He studied me for a moment, his eyes darkening. “No. It’s been five years since his death,” he said coldly.
He added nothing further, and I wished I’d never asked. From his curt response, I could see this was not a subject he wished to converse about. He’d never spoken to me in that tone before, and I felt hurt burn in my chest. Was my question really so offensive?
After dinner, I played the pianoforte while Kitty seated herself next to Mr. Walsh, giggling and whispering. He seemed distracted. I noticed his eyes roving about the room, although his head was tilted toward her. Mr. Carstairs turned the pages for me, though it wasn’t really necessary. I played poorly, making a hash of some difficult passages because my attention was not fully engaged. As soon as the piece was finished, I nearly leaped off the bench. Stealing from the room, I sought the privacy of my own chamber. It wasn’t so difficult to escape from Henry Walsh if I applied myself to the task.
W e had many such evenings. Mr. Carstairs was a frequent visitor and often made the fourth at the whist table. On a few occasions, Jane invited other guests, and I played so everybody else could dance. I grew irritated with seeing all the ladies save myself dancing with Mr. Walsh. My resentment was magnified because I did not feel we were on good terms. Although I’d felt his watchful eyes on more than one occasion, we had exchanged only a few perfunctory words ever since I had asked about his father. Perhaps the question had been impertinent, but it seemed a small thing to forgive.
If this was the way things were to be, I thought I may as well return to Longbourn. My feelings were in a tangle; I desperately wanted his attention but was afraid I wouldn’t know how to behave if he bestowed it on me. For the present, his affection seemed directed at Kitty. He was solicitous of her comfort. He brought her tea, and once fetched her shawl when she said she was chilly. Frequently he was her dance partner, and he always played cards when she requested.
No. Allowing myself to feel anything for him would leave me far too vulnerable.
One evening while I was straightening the sheet music, he approached me.
“Miss Bennet, are we never to stand up together? Are you the only lady who plays?”
I felt warmth rising up from my neck. “I’m afraid I can’t speak for Jane’s acquaintances, but among my sisters, Elizabeth is the only other who plays.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Bingley could extend her an invitation? She lives in Derbyshire, does she not?”
I laughed. “Some ten miles from here. She has twin daughters who keep her very busy, so I doubt she will visit for the sole
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